


All's fair in love and time travel

by LackingBinary



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Rating subject to change, moderate au after brainstorm's trial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8585824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LackingBinary/pseuds/LackingBinary
Summary: After Brainstorm's attempt to alter the timeline, the crew of the Lost Light convenes a council to determine his guilt. As a result, Brainstorm is thrown off the Lost Light and left to fend for himself. In the wake of his absence, Perceptor deals with the fact that he suddenly seems to care. In the end, the most logical course of actions is obviously for Perceptor to set off in search of the missing scientist.





	1. All the moments after

**Author's Note:**

> I have no clue how long this is gonna be, but my intention is certainly for it to be moderately long. Also, for things to get Less Gloomy in the near future.

"Centuries. You’ve risked everything--your life, friends, your reputation… and here we are. It’s all been leading to this moment. To this room and your finger on that trigger.” 

Brainstorm sat on the edge of his berth, dull optics unfocused. When they had first locked him in here-- locked up in his own habsuite, for Primus’ sake; didn’t they know what he kept in here?-- he had been unable to hold himself still, pacing endless circuits around the small space. Cycles had passed since then, as best he could tell, and he no longer had the energy for such frivolous motion

He could’ve thrown together something to enable his escape, of course, but what good would that do him? Everyone on this ship was inclined to be hostile towards him, given his recent bout of poisoning, and he had nowhere to go. No, for better or worse this ship and its motley crew were all he had. 

There had been that farce of a trial, and then nothing. The committee had deconvened, citing a need to deliberate, but that had been ages ago. Were they planning to simply leave him here until he offlined for lack of fuel? It would be an unusually cruel fate, though perhaps no worse than he deserved. 

He cradled his helm in his hands, startling slightly at the sensation of his cheek cables against his palms. The absence of his faceplate, a permanent fixture for vorns beyond number, ached like an open wound. It was yet another inescapable reminder of his failure. 

Clenching his dentae, Brainstorm choked back a sob. Angrily, he swiped at the coolant beginning to spill down his cheeks. He hated the helpless fear that clutched at him, threatening to pull him down into its hazy depths. 

The logical part of his processor told him that he was acting like a fool; he might have failed in his mission, but he was still alive. And if he was alive, he could try again. They couldn’t watch him forever, and if there was anything in this universe he believed in, it was his ability to design his way out of a seemingly hopeless situation. Pit, even Perceptor had been moved to applaud his skill. 

Oh, but that had been a _treat_. Perceptor, celebrating _his_ genius! Mechs usually reacted to his creations with some combination of fear and incomprehension, if not outright horror. Even Whirl, who benefited the most directly from his tinkering, accepted each new weapon with a look that was more manic than appreciative, like an addict accepting a drug. Brainstorm might have felt bad about that, if he hadn’t been far too busy regretting other things. 

At the thought, his doubts resurfaced with a vengeance. The simple fact of the matter was that he was lost. He had spent _centuries_ with a single task, a definite purpose, and now he had been cut loose. If this was what freedom felt like, he had never known it to hurt so much.

He had never meant to live beyond the fulfillment of his goal, beyond the moment where he held a gun in one hand and and his hopes in the other. Megatron had lain there, defenseless, the warlord’s continued existence weighed against the billions of lives he was destined to end, and Brainstorm still hadn’t brought himself to choose. That was the most shameful thing about the whole sorry affair: he had executed his plan perfectly, constructed an impossible machine, and in the end the sticking point had been his own finger on the trigger. 

The door swung open, breaking him from his unhappy reverie. On the other side stood Ultra Magnus, his expression unreadable as ever. Brainstorm found himself wishing they had elected to send someone else, so that he might have gauged the severity of the committee’s verdict from his face.

As it was, Magnus merely gestured towards the door with one large hand. Brainstorm slid from the berth, his motions slow and careful. It would do him no good to appear threatening or disobedient.

Magnus pulled a set of handcuffs from his subspace, and Brainstorm reluctantly allowed them to be affixed to his wrists. Then he was being prodded down the hall, Magnus’ frame an imposing presence at his back. 

He could feel the optics of every mech they passed burning into his plating. The trial may have been invitation-only, but the committee was deluding itself if it thought the rest of the crew wouldn’t find out what had transpired. Even if they declared him innocent, there were more than a few mechs who would likely take exception to Brainstorm’s attempt to wipe them out of existence. There were probably also a few who would have thanked him for the mercy. There were, as Brainstorm could attest, so many things worse than death.

Far too soon, it seemed, the doors to the conference room loomed before them. Each step took an eternity as he crossed the room to his seat, and as he settled into it he felt the unknown yawn before him like a pit poised to swallow him whole. His life was no longer his to shape, and he found that he was terrified.

Rodimus stared down at him from the judges’ pedestal as Magnus took his seat, and for once there was no cheerful glimmer in his optics. His mouth was flattened into a straight line, rare stoicism making an uneasy mask of his features. Panic curled in Brainstorm’s tanks, threatening to choke him.

“Brainstorm,” Magnus said, the word a physical weight against Brainstorm’s chest. “The committee has reached its verdict.”

His spark was beating erratically, as though trying to escape its casing. His world had narrowed to Magnus’ face, the emerging words that would either redeem or condemn him. 

“In light of the actions you have taken against the crew of this ship, and your attempt to alter the course of history, you have been deemed an untenable risk and will be removed accordingly.” 

_Removed_? Did they mean to kill him? They couldn’t mean that; this was an Autobot vessel in all but name and Autobots didn’t _do_ things like that-- except that they did, of course, there was nobody in this thrice-damned war who hadn’t committed atrocities. Magnus was still speaking, and he forced himself to focus.

“--and as such, the Committee has decided that the best course of action is to terminate your position aboard this vessel, effective immediately.”

There was a moment of perfect silence as the room’s inhabitants processed the implications of that statement. Brainstorm’s processor whirled, ill-considered arguments spilling from his vocalizer before he could determine their value. 

“You--you’re taking away my lab? You can’t do that! I might not have made the best decisions, but neither has anyone else on this ship! Nobody came to any permanent harm--”

“You misunderstand.” If Brainstorm didn’t know better, he would’ve sworn that was pity in the ex-enforcer’s optics. “Our intention is not to retract your lab privileges, but to remove you entirely from this vessel.” 

This was all a nightmare; it had to be. In a moment he would wake from recharge, the unfinished equations for his time machine flashing mockingly before his optics. In all his imaginings, though, he had never dreamt _this_ : that he would fail so horrifically and yet still live through it, cast aside like a broken plaything. Where would he _go_? To the Decepticons? The idea was as laughable as it was ill-advised. 

“Please,” he whispered, hating the broken tone of his voice. “It’s-- this is all I have left. Quark--” His vocalizer buzzed with static, and he reset it. “--Quark’s gone, the New Institute’s gone. Who’s gonna want a washed-up gunsmith now that the war’s over?” 

Brainstorm curled his fingers against his palms, feeling the thin metal dent slightly. He hated the taste of desperation, but he’d swallow his pride a dozen times over if it saved him from this. 

A new voice spoke up, and Brainstorm turned his head with all the agility of a corpse. To his shock, it was Perceptor. “Surely, this is not the only conceivable solution? Brainstorm’s intentions may have been poor, but in terms of ingenuity his machine frankly surpasses any invention of our age. It would be a waste to--

“Perceptor,” Rodimus cut in, his tone sharper and more authoritative than Brainstorm had ever heard it, “the committee has made its decision. Now we all have to live with the consequences.”

Then Magnus was moving towards him again. Brainstorm shrank back against the chair, but there was nowhere for him to go. For once in his life, he had no clever plans to save him; his wits had deserted him just as surely as the mechs of the _Lost Light_.

Magnus’ hand closed around his shoulder, his grip a vice of iron.The weight of it felt like a death sentence. 

As he was led from the room, Brainstorm caught a last glimpse of Perceptor. The mech’s optics were on him, his expression inscrutable. The door slid shut, cutting him off from Perceptor and the remnants of his life aboard the _Lost Light_. 


	2. Recursive Algorithms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> perceptor doesn't know how to deal with things  
> anything, really

Perceptor couldn’t focus. At first he thought the problem was merely lingering irritation from the way Rodimus had brushed him off at the trial. Anger buzzed through his lines at the thought of his flame-colored captain: the idiot paid no mind to the scientists who performed the “magic” (as he called it) that kept his ship running, but as soon as there was a problem he expected Perceptor to instantaneously produce an impossible solution to a situation that was already highly improbable.

But his anger over Rodimus’ attitude had faded, as his emotions were wont to do. He was not, as most mechs thought, wholly devoid of emotion. Over the millenia, however, he had certainly learned to repress them when they became inconvenient. And in his experience, emotions were almost always inconvenient. 

And yet, his distraction had failed to abate. His processor kept returning him to the trial, as though caught in a loop. In the darkness of his closed optics, he would see the hard set of Rodimus’ jaw, the practiced indifference of Magnus’ expression. Most frequently, though, he would see the sparking panic in Brainstorm’s optics, feel the almost-painful lash of his swelling field as it had clawed against the plating of the room’s observers. 

Perceptor found himself staring down at a shattered beaker, having no memory of its fall. He scrubbed a hand across his face, ex-venting harshly. Whatever was going on, it was interfering with his work. And now that the leadership had deigned to throw Brainstorm off the ship, his work was of more importance than ever. 

Was that it, perhaps? Was he simply stressed at the increased burden that had been levied upon him? But that would be inane; he had been under far greater pressure before. He’d been a Wrecker, for Primus’ sake. 

And yet, what other explanation was there? Why else would he keep turning, already opening his mouth to ask something of Brainstorm before realizing the other mech wasn’t there, and indeed never would be again? Why else would that realization twist his internals into knots?

Gingerly, he began to pick up the shattered fragments of the beaker. He was just tired. It would take him a little longer to adjust to his new responsibilities, that was all. He’d clean up this mess and then he’d take the night off, perhaps grab a drink at Swerve’s. 

With any luck, it wouldn’t be too crowded. 

\----

Swerve’s was absolutely _packed_. 

The doors slid open to reveal a throng of mechs, most of them clearly in the more advanced stages of inebriation. Perceptor was of half a mind to turn around and head back to his habsuite, but he had already made his plans for the evening and he was loathe to alter them. 

So he pushed his way through the crowd, his grim expression enough to encourage most mechs to get out of his way. At one point Whirl darted across his path, a perfect storm of chaos. In the aftermath of the trial, he seemed to have grown even more boisterous. 

Swerve seemed harried, darting between tables as he struggled to keep up with the demands of his many patrons. But he still spared a moment when Perceptor ordered “something strong,” glancing up at the scientist with a worried frown.

“Something eatin’ you, Percy?” He asked, pouring something ominous-looking into a tall glass. Perceptor made a noncommittal noise, resolutely looking anywhere but Swerve’s face.

“You’re a hero, y’know. Saved us all from being rewritten out of existence. Hah! Who woulda thought that’d even be a problem when we started this quest?” Swerve slid the drink across the bar, and Perceptor took it gratefully.

“Yes,” he said, with a bit more bitterness than he had intended, “I’m a hero for foiling the designs of a mech whose plans spanned centuries, and who had more cunning in him than any of us could hope to match.” Perceptor took a sip of the drink, flinching as liquid fire made its way down his intake. Almost immediately, though, he felt the edges of his tension begin to blur. 

“It sounds almost like you miss him,” Swerve mused, bending to grab several more glasses from behind the bar.

“I most certainly do _not_ miss him!” Perceptor muttered, angrily taking another sip of his drink. 

Swerve hummed in a way that seemed meant to convey disbelief. 

“After all,” he mused, “Who could miss a mech whose disbelief in the experimental method almost lead to the combustion of the lab on a bi-weekly basis? Or who hung from the ceiling for Primus-knows-how-long just to prove that he _could_? He would never leave me alone, and he seemed to be completely ignorant of the definition of personal space!”

It was around this time that Perceptor realized Swerve had walked away at some point, and had perhaps been gone for quite a while as he ranted at nobody. Blearily, he decided he’d add that to the list of things he was blaming Brainstorm for. 

As his processor warmed with the effects of intoxication, he found his thoughts turning once more to the the trial. This time, though, the memories were only of Brainstorm. Perceptor had never given much thought to the other scientist’s face, though he supposed he had always known he must have one. It had been incredibly expressive, something that Perceptor attributed to all the years he had spent hiding it behind his faceplate. 

But that very expressiveness had only made it easier to see the distress that took hold of the mech when he heard the judgement that had been placed upon him. It had been so different from the jet’s usual cool egotism that Perceptor’s spark had fairly frozen in his chassis. 

At some point Swerve had placed another drink in front of him, and he downed that one as well. It was becoming increasingly harder to think coherently, but hadn’t that been the point of this exercise? He felt that, perhaps, the goal had been different, but he could no longer remember what it might have been. 

“Stupid,” he muttered, glossa thick in his mouth. “‘Course I wouldn’t miss that menace of a scientist.” 

But the last cogent thought that occupied his befuddled processor was that he half-wished he could’ve seen what Brainstorm’s face would have looked like if he’d smiled. 

\---

Perceptor onlined to a throbbing processor and an unfamiliar room. Panic fought through the dull ache in his helm, protocols struggling to determine why he wasn’t in his habsuite. As his surroundings swam into focus, he realized that he was still in Swerve’s bar. 

He sat up with a groan, peeling himself from the sticky surface of the bar with distaste. The place was empty, and all the lights had been put out. The only illumination came from the tubes of colored engex that ran across the back wall of the bar. His internal chronometer informed him that it was ridiculously early in the morning. 

The motion of his arms knocked over a stack of empty glasses. He squinted at them, noting in consternation that there were far more than he remembered ingesting. Primus, he hadn’t had this much to drink since his stint in the Wreckers. 

It would appear that Swerve, deeming Perceptor more of a threat to his person than his bar, had seen fit to leave him passed out rather than try to rouse him. Perceptor couldn’t exactly blame him; his instincts might not have reacted well to being forcibly wakened. 

Pushing himself up from the bar, he made his way to the door. He slid it open, thankful that the hallway was empty. 

He stumbled back to his habsuite, resolutely avoiding the optics of any mech he happened to pass. It was an unusual hour, but he still passed a scuffed-looking Whirl who waved a claw at him wearily. 

He typed in the passcode to his quarters, ex-venting quietly in relief once he was shut off from the rest of the ship. He was never quite at home in the large hallways, where calamities seemed to crop up with alarming regularity. 

No duties were required of him for several hours yet, given the time, and so he settled into his berth in an attempt to get a bit more recharge. This proved, however, more difficult than usual: the thoughts that had filled his drunken processor still occupied his sobering mind.

He grimaced, remembering his inebriated wish to see Brainstorm’s smile. Where in Cybertron had _that_ come from? This fixation was becoming truly ridiculous, and on top of that it was deleterious to his work. He made a low noise of irritation, burying his face in the sheets of his berth.

One way or another, he was going to have to do something about this.


	3. Points of Intersection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> its been a while  
> life happens

Perceptor awoke in a foul mood. His processor-ache from the previous cycle had failed to abate during his recharge, and the dull pulse of pain behind his optics only served as a reminder of his predicament. 

Levering himself to his pedes, Perceptor grabbed a few data pads from the table beside his berth. He scrolled through them absently, pausing for a moment on the one that held the schematics of Brainstorm’s time machine. Or at least, as much of the design as he had been able to recover: his fellow scientist had done a rather good job of covering his tracks. Probably because he’d had the good sense to realize a time machine could be disastrous in the wrong hands, though Perceptor couldn’t dismiss the possibility that he’d done it just to be a nuisance. 

If there was one thing Brainstorm loved, it was making himself such a problem that someone _had_ to pay attention. He thought he was being subtle about it, but Perceptor had always been able to tell between a genuine emergency and one Brainstorm had fabricated to make himself look good. 

Perceptor shook his helm, pulling his optics from the pad’s display. Brainstorm was gone, that was the truth of it. It was pointless to dwell on him, or even to retain knowledge about his mannerisms. He’d lost plenty of colleagues in the millions of years of this war; he didn’t know why it had suddenly become a problem _now_.

He startled as his HUD flashed, alerting him that someone was trying to call him. The caller turned out to be Rodimus, and Perceptor ground his dentae in frustration before answering. He hated to admit it, but he almost preferred to deal with Megatron: at least the ex-decepticon usually made an effort to be professional. 

“Hey, Percy!” Rodimus chirped, evidently having recovered his usual exuberance once he had put the trial behind him. “Got a moment?”

Perceptor doubted Rodimus would have been halted by the knowledge that Perceptor was, in fact, busy, and he was proven right when Rodimus continued without giving him a chance to answer. 

“Right, okay, so it turns out that the engines are being a bit...weird.”

“Weird,” Perceptor repeated, already feeling tired.

“Yeah! I was talking to Megs--Megatron-- and he said it was something to do with quantum particles, maybe? I wasn’t really listening, to be honest. I think he said it had something to do with all the time shenanigans lately. Either way, it’s probably a good idea for you to come down here and take a look at it, so that we don’t all die in some entirely preventable calamity.” 

Primus, was he ever going to escape Brainstorm’s shadow? Even when he wasn’t around, the mech was causing him trouble. 

“Of course,” Perceptor said, the ache from his processor settling into his struts, “I’ll be down as soon as time permits.”

Perceptor stuck the pad containing Brainstorm’s designs into a drawer of his desk, fully determined to neither look at it nor think about it again. 

\---

The engines ended up taking up the rest of the cycle. They were more than ‘a bit weird,’ as it turned out; the quantum drives had been seriously damaged, though Perceptor found that he was unable to determine the cause. It might’ve been related to the disruptions caused by Brainstorm’s invention, which might have had unforeseen localized effects, but without Brainstorm around to corroborate any of his theories he couldn’t be sure.

In any case, he was forced to spend the better part of the cycle immersed in the internals of the _Lost Light_ ’s engines, with Ultra Magnus hovering around him pretending not to be deeply worried whilst also trying to keep a close optic on the proceedings. 

Megatron was nearby as well, though he kept his distance; either he had the good sense not to interfere with something he knew little about, or he was still feeling put off by the chastisement Perceptor had given him during the time travel incident. Perceptor didn’t really care, so long as Megatron stayed out of his way. 

Rodimus, as was usually the case when there was work to be done, was nowhere to be found. Evidently, having been the one to call Perceptor, he felt that he had divested himself of captainly duties for the time being.

The repairs necessitated that he make several trips back to his lab for supplies and reference materials. Given that his myriad onlookers were generally uninclined to help him carry anything, he ended up with a medley of minor strains that did nothing to soothe his irritation with the universe at large, and the crew of the _Lost Light_ specifically. 

He found himself snapping at Magnus when the SIC asked him to triple check every step of his work, though he immediately regretted it. After all, he was usually of a meticulous nature himself. According to Brainstorm, it was one of his more annoying traits. Apparently it “Interfered with the flow of innovative science,” which was one of the more ridiculous things Perceptor had heard. 

At any rate, once he had completed the repairs to Magnus’ satisfaction, he was in no mood to pursue any endeavors of a scientific nature. So, naturally, he found his tired pedes taking him back to Swerve’s, as though his subconscious were trying to establish a routine. 

As he settled himself at one of the bar’s stools, he felt Swerve’s gaze resting on him. Somewhat sheepishly, he turned to meet the bartender’s accusing optics. 

“Ah, about last night--” he began, rubbing the back of his helm and casting his gaze around the bar in discomfort. Swerve held up a hand, cutting him off. He smiled somewhat lopsidedly, with the look of someone who was forced to have such conservations on a regular basis.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. You had a rough cycle, it seems like. Happens to the best of us, right?” He reached out, as though to place a consoling hand on Perceptor’s shoulder, but only managed to reach about halfway up his chest. “Just don’t let it become a habit, yeah?”

Perceptor bit back the defensive remark that rose instinctively to his lips, electing instead to twist his face into some facsimile of an apologetic smile. Swerve, seemingly appeased, patted him once on the chest before turning away. 

A moment later, Swerve slid a drink in front of him. Perceptor took a sip of it, finding the taste to be rather sweet, though not unpleasantly so. It did not seem nearly as strong as the drinks Swerve had served him the last time he had been here, for which he was grateful. He really had no desire to wake up splayed across the bartop again. 

Time passed pleasantly enough, with a low-level charge buzzing warmly through his systems. Patrons wandered in and out, and Perceptor caught snatches of their conversations in passing. 

Chromedome and Rewind settled at a table nearby, their interactions still somewhat tentative in the wake of Rewind’s miraculous ‘revival’. Ratchet slouched in, looking worn down, and settled onto a stool with the air of someone who intended never to move again. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the faint strains of Blaster playing music. 

From the corner of his optic he caught a glimpse of a wing, and he half-turned before remembering that Brainstorm was no longer here, and that it couldn’t possibly be him. He was struck, once again, by the uncomfortable realization that he _cared_ about the obnoxious jet’s absence. 

Perceptor slumped against the bar, his processor overtaken by a sudden deluge of memories. This time, though, it wasn’t just the trial; he saw Brainstorm suspended from the ceiling of their shared laboratory, his fingers working at the delicate internal mechanisms of a new weapon; Brainstorm bouncing towards him, a half-manic glow to his optics as he babbled about some new invention he absolutely _needed_ Perceptor’s help with; Brainstorm, in a rare moment of stillness, the light from a datapad sending shadows dancing across his faceplate. 

Perceptor ex-vented shakily, resting his helm in his hands. Swerve, walking by with a tray full of drinks, paused to shoot him a worried glance. Perceptor pulled a hand away from his face to wave the bartender away. 

“I’m fine, Swerve,” he said, sitting back up to lend credibility to his words. He stared into the depths of his drink, swirling the liquid absently. Swerve, beginning to walk away, found his motion arrested by Perceptor’s next words. “Do you ever wish you could… forget someone? I find myself in that position, and I must admit that it is rather jarring. I do not often find myself in the possession of knowledge that I wish to divest myself of.” 

Swerve looked at him, some emotion Perceptor couldn’t readily define flashing in his visor. He placed his tray carefully on the bar. “Everyone feels like that sometimes, Percy. Except you, I guess.”

“How do you all _deal_ with it?”

“We all want things we can’t have, Perce. You cope with it in whatever way you can,” Swerve said, rubbing absently at his palm in a motion that seemed more habit than intention. If Perceptor squinted he could make out faint lines, as though someone had inscribed something into the metal. 

Perceptor had no response to that, and after another moment Swerve picked his tray back up and continued on his rounds. Once again, Perceptor was left alone with nothing but his drink and his memories for company. 

A moment later, however, he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. He manually deactivated the protocols that urged him to attack, opting instead to turn at a reasonable pace and observe the mech who had approached him. It turned out to be Chromedome, looking a bit more somber than usual. Rewind stood behind him, his hands fluttering nervously. 

“We,” he said, gesturing at his Conjunx, “couldn’t help but overhear what you said to Swerve.” 

The silence stretched uncomfortably as Perceptor waited for him to continue, realizing only after several moments that a response was expected of him. “Oh?”

“What you said about, ah, forgetting someone. We don’t claim to understand exactly what you do in that lab of yours, what you’re capable of, but I figured I’d give you some advice that Brainstorm once gave to me.”

Perceptor grimaced at the name; if he’d had any more energy he would’ve been _furious_. Was there any aspect of his life that Brainstorm hadn’t touched? If Chromedome noticed, he didn’t react. 

“He came to me, after Rewind… died.” Chromedome glanced over at the smaller mech, who inclined his helm encouragingly. “He knew that I had a habit of … making myself forget about people when remembering them became too painful. He’d seen it happen before, and he said that if I forgot Rewind, then he’d really be gone, and that wasn’t fair because he deserved to be remembered by me, more than anyone else.”

“I don’t see how that pertains at all to my situation,” Perceptor said, swirling the dregs of his drink. 

“My _point_ ,” Chromedome continued, as if Perceptor hadn’t interrupted, “is that Brainstorm considered you his friend, and I know that if he were here he’d give you the same warning he gave me.”

“His friend? _Hardly_. I imagine he thought of me as a hindrance, if he thought of me at all.” For some reason, that realization caused his tanks to twist unpleasantly. Frankly, it was ridiculous; Brainstorm’s inattention should have been something he relished.

For a mech without a visible face, Chromedome managed to express disbelief rather impressively. “A hindrance? Perceptor, every time you walked out of a room, all the idiot could talk about was how he wished you’d walk back in.”

“That’s hardly indicative of anything substantial. He was probably looking for more opportunities to interfere with my work.” 

Perceptor could’ve sworn that he heard Rewind giggle. Chromedome’s voice, when he spoke, sounded like he was holding back laughter as well. “For such a smart mech, you’re being willfully obtuse.”

Perceptor frowned, downing the last of his drink. “I don’t appreciate whatever implication you’re trying to impose upon me. Moreover, I don’t possess the tools or the expertise to perform mnemosurgery, and Brainstorm, whatever his flaws, at least knew that much. So perhaps you’d do well to stay out of my affairs.” 

Chromedome and Rewind exchanged a look, holding some silent conversation that Perceptor couldn’t begin to fathom in his moderately intoxicated state. Then Chromedome shrugged, turning away. 

“I’ve said my piece,” he said over his shoulder, “you’re free to take my advice or ignore it, there’s really no difference to me.”

Perceptor grumbled something unintelligible, gesturing for Swerve to bring him another drink. Swerve pointedly ignored him. 

“If you asked me, though,” Chromedome said, continuing to edge his way towards the door, “I’d say that a visit to Rung might do you some good.”

“I had no intention of asking,” Perceptor mumbled, looking forlornly at his empty glass. By that time, however, Chromedome had already left.


End file.
